


little green frogs and the spoils of war

by kiyoooooooomi (hoetaku97)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28553832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoetaku97/pseuds/kiyoooooooomi
Summary: On the court, Atsumu is a dominating presence, a wildfire that threatens to engulf the entire arena and everyone around him, only to leave himself standing in the center, a cruel smirk playing at his lips as he mocks you for being unable to take the heat, while he burns brighter than ever. In Kiyoomi’s apartment, however, he is just Atsumu, small and scared and doubting the larger than life demon that occasionally occupies his body, taking it for a spin and leaving him empty after it’s done.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 247
Collections: ~SakuAtsu~





	little green frogs and the spoils of war

**Author's Note:**

> while it’s not explicitly stated, please be mindful there are a few anxiety mentions in the fic before reading

Tuesday night, 11:39pm, there’s a knock on the door.

Kiyoomi frowns, looking up from where he stands in front of a tea kettle boiling on the stove. He can’t imagine who would be visiting him at this hour. Anyone who knows Sakusa Kiyoomi knows he has a strict sleep schedule, which he follows religiously. Tonight is just… an exception. An exception, just like every other night for the last week. After suffering a tough loss against the EJP Raijin, Kiyoomi has been left to wonder about his own abilities, about how even he could have the capacity for so many  _ careless _ mistakes. It leaves him sleepless well into the night, because even if he crawled into bed now with the intent to rest, he would end up staring at the ceiling for hours instead. Even still, late nights are not the norm for Kiyoomi, and he intends to keep it that way.

Which begs the question:  _ who in god’s name is knocking at my door on a Tuesday night at this unholy hour? _

His socked feet pad against the cold hardwood floor, trepidation building in the pit of his stomach. His mind is flooded with horrible, absurd images of who or what might be waiting on the side, because  _ what sort of person comes over at this hour unannounced _ , and as he looks through the peephole, he is filled with relief, first, and next, a fresh round of questions.

Miya Atsumu stands on the other side of the door, staring down at his hands, which he can’t seem to stop wringing nervously.

It must be an emergency… right?

Kiyoomi and Atsumu are hardly what could be considered friends. Aside from sharp jabs and childish competitions on the court, they really steer clear of each other. They are frenemies at best, acquaintances at worse.

So, why is he here?

Kiyoomi almost doesn’t open the door. He almost turns around, walks away, and pretends to sleep. If Atsumu brought it up at practice tomorrow, would he feign ignorance? Would Atsumu even bring it up at all? Probably not.

And yet. And yet.

Something in Atsumu’s expression tugs at the strings buried deep in Kiyoomi’s chest. He furrows his brow at the slight sting, the downturn of Atsumu’s full lips picking him apart inside, nagging at him.

He opens the door. Was there ever any other choice, really?

Free will is an illusion.

“Miya.” 

Atsumu jumps at the sudden opening of the door, as if he had given up and was about to walk away. His hair is disheveled, like he had been doing the thing with his hands where he keeps running his fingers through the blonde strands, pulling and tugging as he goes. He’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt and baggy track pants, and upon further inspection, his eyes are red and puffy, as though he’s been crying.

“Omi-kun!” Atsumu tries to muster up his signature smug smirk, but it falls short and becomes something sad and small instead.

Kiyoomi, never one to beat around the bush, cuts right to the chase. “Why are you here?”

“I was just in the neighborhood and thought ya might still be up.” He’s still playing with his hands, even as he keeps his gold eyes trained on Kiyoomi.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi’s voice is uncharacteristically soft and gentle, yet probing just the same, “don’t waste my time or yours with lying. Why are you here?”

“I can’t be alone tonight,” Atsumu blurts, and suddenly Kiyoomi is able to solve the puzzle right there, with Atsumu handing him the missing piece. The bandaged fingers, the tear-stained, ruddy cheeks, and above all, the anxious fidgeting. And right now, he looks terrified that Kiyoomi is going to tell him to go home. Surely, from his readily available honesty, he must think Kiyoomi would turn him away if he dared to attempt another lie.

It’s almost laughable. Kiyoomi isn’t sure he could turn him away now even if he wanted to, not after seeing him like this.

“Come inside,” Kiyoomi says, stepping aside to usher Atsumu into his one bedroom apartment.

The shrill cry of the tea kettle makes them both jump, and Kiyoomi mutters a quick profanity under his breath before leaving Atsumu to strip off his shoes.

He calls out to Atsumu from the kitchen to go wait in the living room as he fishes out two mugs from the cabinet. Atsumu calls back a  _ ‘kay _ , and Kiyoomi hears his footsteps trail off down the hall. He pulls out two mugs, one a standard white, the other in the shape of a little green frog. He smiles to himself and blushes slightly as he runs his thumb over one of the big, black ceramic eyes.  _ It might not help _ , Kiyoomi thinks,  _ but it certainly can’t hurt. _ Originally, it had been a gift from Komori. He had laughed and laughed and laughed at Kiyoomi’s sour expression, citing the reason as Kiyoomi’s affinity for the color green.  _ It looks just like you, cousin _ , Komori had said between harsh gasps for air. Once a gag gift, now a source of comfort, because it is a constant reminder to Kiyoomi that someone cares for him, that Komori looked at this silly little frog mug and thought of Kiyoomi. Maybe it could do the same for Atsumu.

Kiyoomi lifts the mugs and cautiously makes his way to the couch where Atsumu is already sitting, staring down at his lap and fidgeting with the drawstring of his track pants. Kiyoomi was already mildly aware of Atsumu’s need to fidget when he gets nervous, but seeing it in action, seeing it play out in the middle of his living room is a whole other beast. 

He looks so different now, bathed in low lamp light, sunk into Kiyoomi’s worn blue couch. He’s hunched in on himself, shoulders rolled forward, suddenly looking so unsure of himself. So different from the usual obnoxious, teasing Atsumu on the court is this new Atsumu, who looks like he’s trying to fold himself into the cushions and hide there forever. On the court, Atsumu is a dominating presence, a wildfire that threatens to engulf the entire arena and everyone around him, only to leave himself standing in the center, a cruel smirk playing at his lips as he mocks you for being unable to take the heat, while he burns brighter than ever. In Kiyoomi’s apartment, however, he is just Atsumu, small and scared and doubting the larger than life demon that occasionally occupies his body, taking it for a spin and leaving him empty after it’s done.

Kiyoomi sits the mugs on the two coasters and settles into the couch beside him, but Atsumu still doesn’t turn to look at him. Instead, he eyes the little green frog mug for a moment, before doubling over in hysterical laughter. There are tears forming in the corners of his eyes and he holds his side, a loud barking laugh filling the room as Kiyoomi feels the heat rushing to his face, suddenly embarrassed. Does Atsumu think the frog is too childish? Does he think Kiyoomi is childish? The thought alone is mortifying. Kiyoomi wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole, if only to spare him this indignity.

When Atsumu finally settles down, wiping tears from his eyes and laying back into the cushion, he sighs happily. “Man Omi-kun, you really do always surprise me. Who woulda thought ya were so cute underneath all that prickliness?”

“C-cute?” God, he sounds so flustered. The laughing was better than  _ this. _

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, looking and sounding more at ease as he folds his hands behind his head, “the little frog. I like it. It suits you, now that I think about it.” He holds in his hands and studies it from the light yellow belly to the arm that serves as a handle.

“You didn’t come here to talk about me,” Kiyoomi says, desperate to shift the attention from himself.

“Actually, maybe I did. Even hearing about your boring life would be better than sittin’ around thinkin’ about my own.”

“Stop insulting me and get to the point or get out.”

“Fine, fine. Ya don’t have to be so pushy. If you wanted to know about me so badly, ya could’ve just asked nicely.”

“You’re the one who showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night unannounced. You must have a reason, or you wouldn’t be here, and you’re wasting my time with the idle chit chat.” Kiyoomi drops his voice, as if he’s trying not to spook a cornered animal. “What’s wrong, Atsumu?”

“If I wasn’t in such a shit mood, I would be  _ thrilled _ that you just called me by name. Maybe I still am, a little, but I can’t really enjoy it.” As Atsumu prattles on, Kiyoomi feels as though he’s intruding on a very personal private conversation between Atsumu and himself. Kiyoomi has to stifle a giggle when he realizes Atsumu is  _ monologue-ing _ , like in some sort of Shakespearean tragedy. “Lately, I’ve been thinkin’ about myself, and the way I play. I believed I was the best setter in Japan for a long time, and if anyone asks, I still do. But,” Atsumu sighs, forcing his fingers through his hair, “sometimes, I wonder. The EJP game got me thinkin’ about what I could’ve done better. About the ways I might’ve been able to fix it. Realistically, I know there’s only so much I can do. One person can’t win a match, sure, but what could  _ I _ have done to set everyone else up for success? What tosses could I have given to make sure we would score? Did I toss to the wrong players at the wrong times? Was I reading the game all wrong?” Atsumu shifts his golden eyes to Kiyoomi, brilliant and burning and  _ earnest _ and Kiyoomi feels like he can’t breathe. “I can’t do everythin’ alone, this isn’t something I need to be told, but I wanna do everything I can. I would say I’m better than the way I played in that game, but am I really? I wanna be someone the team can rely on and never doubt and… I wonder, deep down if I could ever really be that person.”

Kiyoomi blinks, dumbstruck and speechless.

“I know, you probably think it’s silly, right?” Atsumu smiles a weary smile, the dark circles under his eyes prominent in this light.

“I don’t,” Kiyoomi says firmly. “I don’t think it’s silly at all to care about what you do. Volleyball is a sport where you are bound to make mistakes, and all you can do is pray you don’t make the one that costs your team the game. If I were anyone else, I might tell you to not hold yourself accountable, that you can’t win every game and you should shake it off, but I’m not anyone else. And you wouldn’t be you, either, if you didn’t take every loss to heart. You define yourself by the way you play, and live the same as you play. So no, I won’t tell you to let it go. What I will tell you is that there is a way forward, and while there is work to be done…” Kiyoomi trails off, feeling shy about the next words out of his mouth, “Your tosses are the best I’ve ever had.”

Atsumu is openly tearing up by the time Kiyoomi finishes speaking, and without another word (or a second thought, for that matter), Kiyoomi sweeps him into his embrace. Atsumu freezes for a fraction of a second, startled by the sudden contact, and then buries his face in the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck and begins to sob. Kiyoomi rubs gentle circles into his back as Atsumu wraps his arms around his waist, holding onto him like a lifeline. His shirt is soaked with Atsumu’s tears, and his nose is filled with the scent of sunshine and clean laundry wafting from Atsumu. Even crying like a child, nose running and eyes glittering with the gemstone tears that spill over, Atsumu is beautiful. Atsumu is love, in every sense of the word, but in no way more than his love of volleyball. He lives and dies by the outcomes of every war waged across the net like a general storming the battlefield and collecting the spoils, a Caesar Augustus in his own right.

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu hums in response without lifting his head.

“Why did you come here tonight?” Kiyoomi’s voice is just above a whisper.

“I just told you I-“

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Kiyoomi interrupts. “Here. Specifically. In my apartment, of all places. Anyone else on the team would probably be better at this than me, so why?”

“You just… I’ve always thought ya had a comforting presence, Omi-kun. You’re always so calm and collected, it’s grounding for me to be around.” Atsumu finally pulls back to look Kiyoomi in the eyes. “It probably doesn’t hurt that I like ya a little bit, too.” 

Kiyoomi’s eyes go wide at the flippant confession, and then he chuckles to himself, burying his face in Atsumu’s hair. “How can you say that so easily?”

“For a long time, I thought ya didn’t care. I was gonna keep it to myself, but after tonight… It sure seems like ya do, at least a little bit.”

Kiyoomi looks around himself at the frog mug sitting idle on the table and has a revelation. Since when had he started to care? Obviously he does. He’s been doting on Atsumu all evening without even being conscious of it, making the whole thing even stranger. When did these tender feelings for the setter with bleach blonde hair and the world at his feet begin to creep in? He thinks of the nerves that seeing Atsumu like this has given him, the desperation to fix it and restore the golden god to his rightful place. He thinks of service ace competitions and late hours spent in the gym for extra practice. He thinks of wicked smiles after pulling off a particularly risky set and even worse, the smile he gives Kiyoomi after the spiker slams the ball into the gleaming wood floor, the opposing team having never stood a chance. Kiyoomi is just another in the throng of hearts that bloom at Miya Atsumu’s whim, after all. Huh.

“Maybe I like you just a little bit too,” Kiyoomi concedes, after coming to his own conclusions.

Fresh tears glaze over Atsumu’s eyes as he laughs softly, still clinging to Kiyoomi as if letting go might literally kill him. “How stupid are we?”

“Very, apparently.”

“I should get goin’, I guess,” Atsumu says suddenly. “You probably wanna get to bed now.” He rises to his feet, stretching his arms high over his head.

Kiyoomi catches him by the wrist before he can take another step. Atsumu stares down at the pale hand holding him in place in shock.

“You can… Stay… If you want to…” Kiyoomi averts his gaze, suddenly considering the possibility of rejection.

“Would that be alright, Omi-Omi? I know you like your space.”

“If the decision is up to me, then yes. I would really like you to stay.”

“Whatever you want then, Kiyoomi.” Atsumu smiles at Kiyoomi with all the fondness in the world, as he feels his world fall apart and come back together in a single second. Kiyoomi doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe when Atsumu seals the deal with a kiss, his lips ghosting over Kiyoomi’s for a fraction of a second. Kiyoomi brings his fingers up to touch his lips after Atsumu pulls away, a smile tugging at the corners, and realizes that he may be another of the spoils of Atsumu’s wars. He doesn’t mind, really.

That night, Kiyoomi gets a good night’s rest for the first time in a week, surrounded by Atsumu’s warmth. He dreams of the sun and the rage of war and little green frogs.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @flowerboyomi
> 
> hope u enjoyed ❤️


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